


The Incubus Bride - Part 2 of 3

by Protoniuss



Series: The Incubus Bride [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29203851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Protoniuss/pseuds/Protoniuss
Summary: An flist log posted with full approval of all participants. It revolves around a manly norscan Chaos Warrior from Warhammer Fantasy dominating and breeding a feminine incubus. This particular chapter also includes BDSM elements such as branding.
Series: The Incubus Bride [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2144160
Kudos: 1





	The Incubus Bride - Part 2 of 3

Anointed Warlord:  
It didn't take long for the musk-addled incubus to take their new owner's cock down that slutty throat, the tight-yet-welcoming esophagus mercilessly stretched to accomodate the jaw-creaking girth. Fully determined to break his slut into her new role as a cum-guzzler, the Warlord proceeded to slam and thrust into Kamilla's newly-christened mouthpussy. Pre-cum, saliva and throat-slime all mixed together into the perfect lubricant to drive that arm-like length down the incu-faggot's warm, wet hole, a calloused hand and meaty digits exerting a dictatorial grip on the succuboi's horns to pull her into every throat-clogging thrust. The Warlord didn't last long amidst the hoarse breaths and steamy atmosphere compounded by Kamilla's eager reception, that brutal, horse-like length sucked into the blowjob-bitch's throat with expertise even as her esophagus was stretched beyond healthy levels.

With his throat-wrecking cockspire forcefed ballsdeep down that slutty gullet, the Ribspreader blasted bellying load after bellying load right into the domesticated incubus's stomach. For several minutes Kamilla's oxygen-supply was callousely disregarded in favor of pressing her nose into the Warlord's groin, air wholly replaced with mind-melting musk as the Northlander shoved and shot his potent loads down the incu-faggot's overstretched throat. His retreat was slow and leisurely, letting the slut feel every inch of gullet-polished horsecock being dragged out of her, still gushing veritable jets of virile, swimmer-teeming whiteness. He was basting his slut's esophagus with his potent mark, his lust-hazed mind intent on letting all lesser males know that it was he who owned this cum-drainage of a throat.

After several minutes of waterlogging Kamilla's gullet he finally pulled out, a last spurt of mouth-filling nutsludge jerked off into her open mouth before he let his half-sated slab of cockpillar drape over his newest cum-guzzler's scalp, shiny with the juices of her conquered holes.

Sometime while he had fucked out his newest slut, the Warlord's men had managed to open the escape-pod's door - having used several beasts of burden to forcefully pull the thing off its hinges by sheer violence of numbers. Task done, the men of the north could only stare in confusion that quickly turned to musk-addled amazement as they watched their Warlord systematically fuck this horned faggot-bitch into shape, the sight of the incubus's pathetic excuse for a dicklette eliciting grim satisfaction from the naturally-uncompromising norscans - the Ribspreader's brutality in pounding the tightness out of this ass-offering slut found cruel approval; it would hardly be a loss if the falsely-bedicked bitch broke.

But the dick-sucker didn't quite lose all their wits from air-deprivation, at least not too many so as to be prevented from gently nuzzling the Warlord's saliva-coated cock while it was ground into her features. Turning to his men, his newest slut softly nursing from his gaping glans, the Ribspreader gave a throat-baring, feral grin "A trinket's been recovered, an accoutrement acquired. The shaman told of a sending from the gods - but his judgement was clouded, too fearful to see what my eyes perceive." a forceful hand pulled the incubus's head back, forcing her to look at the grim-faced norscans as he made his verdict "From the heavens this slut may have descended, but a godly gift? Hah! At best she's divine waste - offal discarded without care!" he shook the slut in his grip, mercilessly showcasing her utter lack of power over her situation "But what's the god's must be put to use, and for that she will be used until she breaks."

The northmen grunted with approval, hard-bitten gazes full of disgust cast upon Kamilla, mixed into ghastly anticipation with which they looked forward to having their own go at this caricature of a male.

Anointed Warlord:  
The trek back to the norscan camp was a mercifully short journey, the Warlord never shifting from the incubus's side as an uncomfortable, imperious grip remained clasped around her horn. The northlanders eyed her with little regard, her being less than prey, nought but a disposable toy destined to be broken and discarded. What might have made the venture arduous was the continuous trail of potent whiteness still leaking from the buttslut's gaping fagcunt, the Warlord having denied her any attempt at covering up her dignity, her little cocklette made to sway for everyone to see right along her jiggling, well-used ass. 

Arriving at the gate, a tall construct of hammered wood manned by an array of guards and curious onlookers that gathered in preparation for the Ribspreader's return - intent on seeing what the gods had sent from the heavens - the Warlord gave the sign for his followers to halt. Allowing for no protest and merely grinning in reply to whatever squeals of denial she could utter, Kamilla's new owner dragged her in front of him, deft movements of his hands displaying in front of the crowd for what she was: A dick-sucking, cum-leaking faggot-breeder, her holes broken in and gaping with the seed of a true male. Intent on driving the point home he proceeded to bend and mount her then and there - his brawn-rippling hands locked around her shoulders to keep her in the prime position for her breeding. The men of the north watched in dreary silence as the Warlord's newest broodmare was pounded before them, her drooling, pathetic dicklette marking her as prime material for the unenviable position as the band's communal cumdumpster.

This was how the weeks passed for Kamilla - bent and bred all over the camp, every day seeing her displayed like the piece of worthless fuckmeat she was. Nigh-constantly on the receiving end of the Warlord's insatiable lust, it was a rarity to see her in any state other than a jizz-bloated, drooling and glassy-eyed ecstacy. Just as well, for it made it an easy task to bequeath upon her the tattoos that blemished her back to denote her as the warband's property, the Warlord's personal iconography written across her swollen belly to mark her fertile depths as his private property. And indeed, her fecundity was undeniable - her bloated bump bearing no less than three of the Ribspreader's offspring, each growing rapidly in the incubus's motherly depths, hungry for growth and space.

The sight of her increasingly pregnant, waddling figure - never allowed to wear even a shred of cloth over any of her holes - only served to drive the Warlord into an ever-increased frenzy, her humiliatingly public breeding-sessions increasing from being just daily, to nigh-hourly, his potency driven to new heights by her gravidity-increased pheromones. Caring nothing for her pleas, her jiggling rump would be fucked sore amidst the impact of the Ribspreader's muscled thighs pile-driving his arm-like manhood into her in broad daylight.

Today he was fucking her against the anvil of the smithery, the working-slaves casting hushed looks into their direction as they tried to swerve around the rut-locked pair. It seemed like just another of her public humiliations, the Warlord's savage pounding crashing into her with merciless brutality, seemingly intent on stretching out her fagcunt beyond recovery as her gravid belly swayed with every cruel thrust. But something was in the air - something beside the musk of the Warlord's fuckfrenzy. Was it the resident hellsmith's trained eye on her? The man was fiddling with a strange piece of iron, a long metal-shaft that ended in the distinctive eight-pointed star surrounding the initials of the Warlord's title.

"Yes, my slut..." the Warlord deigned to laugh at her from above as his brutal thrusting up her mating-tunnel never ceased "... today is the day you will receive my true marking." his voice took on a baleful tone, his heated breath washing over Kamilla's features.

Kamilla Arzt:  
Today was a special day indeed, for the breeding hole that bore the name 'Kamilla'. Just the day prior, they had brought their master Warlord a new set of spawn. Spawn that had grown beyond any natural course of nature. It would be the first of many, that would be born of the two and their locked lust. But now… It was time to take a hold of the slut, and make sure that they knew who it was that they belonged to, above all. As the warband rutted with the whores and degenerates of the camp, captive or otherwise, Kamilla was always skewered by the Warlord himself, the bestial man taking them as his own.

Their tongue hanging freely, the incubus couldn't deny the carnal pleasure that was felt that day on the anvil. It was the first day their womb had been empty of his spawn. And the Warlord was keen on making sure that the fagcunt that was to bear his children was forever full, making good on his promise to them, in that escape pod.

Mewling with every thrust, Kamilla couldn't hold it in. Their glassy eyed pleasure was starting to erode at their thoughts. Each and every hip-shattering thrust that the Warlord had thrown their way, seemed to hit deeper, and deeper within them. They could feel the flare of his cockhead scraping against their deepest parts, pummelling at their unexplored depths. It was like a challenge, finding the parts of their hole that hadn't been ravaged by him, so ghastly tight that it was like attempting to batter a cervix into submission. More and more space within the slut's body that he could claim dominion over. Their eyes began to roll up, the moment that the smell of burning iron came over their senses. Not from the smell itself, but from just how 'enthusiastic' the Warlord had become, today. Every hour, on the hour, they would be pulled from their task, to service the man's ever increasing appetites, and bodily needs to breed.

Despite already giving him a litter of his own spawn, Kamilla was already heavily carrying his young, now. But now the Warlord could reap the benefit of a motherly sow. The incubus's chest leaked, those sensitive, pert nipples running with milk, that tasted like some saccharine mixture of sweets and honey. Their curves became more pliant, against his thrusts, allowing him to go harder than he could normally go on any other.

The Warlord's tone was something that brought along a sensation of deep, thrumming pleasure against Kamilla. Their hole twitched against his cock, as their belly swayed, sloshing with his thick cum that had settled in there from the days of fucking. Their eyes fluttered, as they let out a mewling moan, their legs tensing, toes curling at the sheer sensation of their guts being wrenched into place, their rightful place, lined up to receive the Warlord's seed. Gasping, "Harder-- Please, harder--! Ruin it harder!" All but stoking the flames of the man, as their thick, pillowy lips hang agape. Taking in a deep breath, their mind began to get clouded, by the scent of the man's musk, raping their senses.

The poor breeding fag could barely understand what was about to happen, mind only focused on the cock inside of them. Just as the Warband itself knew faggots would.

Anointed Warlord:  
Kamilla could feel that bitch-breaker quivering as it wrenched open her overtaxed depths. The finger-thick veins riddling the length were pulsating with the egregious task of supplying the hole-obliterating girth with unswerving virility. Spurred on by her heated moans, the Warlord's own grunting growls joined the ass-slut, the pace and force of his cunt-busting pounding taking up yet another notch as he fucked her against the anvil. His pale gaze spotted her leaking, puffy breasts, far less than a handful and yet so starkly inviting to his mind locked in primally masculine fuckrut. In an instant a brawny hand grabbed her by the shoulder to lift her torso up, giving him the ideal angle via which to dive his head down onto her chest. For but a moment Kamilla could have felt his potency-incensed breath on the pert mound, a tongue taking but a moment to give a tentative lick, tasting the incubus's motherly milk as his relentless hollowing of her strained fagcavern continued. 

Judging by the increased throbbing of his slut-taming girth crammed deep inside her clenching asscunt, followed closely by his mouth resolutely clamping down over the nipple, he liked it far more than he should have. Deep, sucking grunts emerged from the Warlord's throat as he drank his slut's faggy tit-sap, the furnace-like heat of his potent, muscled body bearing down on her as he rutted with deep, emphatic strokes that made her feel every inch of whore-splitting cockspire. When the flow of the slut-milk abated amidst his thirsty sucking, the Ribspreader set his teeth to the task of wrenching and twisting more of that fertile fag-extract. His filed teeth found easy purchase, and his unleashed potency allowed for little restraint as he ravenousely drained her engorged bottom-bitch tit, spatters of the fecund slut-sap dribbling from the sides of his mouth.

"You love getting your tits sucked by a real man, don't you, slut?" the Warlord's harsh, hoarse voice grunted forth inbetween his deep sips, his horse-like length quivering and contracting deep inside her, the cum-sloshing gargle of his swaying balls audible even amidst the brutal powerfucking. "Squeal it! Squeal how much you love getting plowed as your man drinks your milk!"

The attending master-smith continued to fiddle with the marking-iron, making a cruel show before the incubus as he emphatically cleaned and polished the steel, taking particular care to highlight the Warlord's initials wrought in iron permanence upon the tip. Giving a cruel grin, eyes set in the she-faggot's direction, the hellsmith dunked the branding-steel into a vat of superheated coals, the sizzling and smoking indicating just how heated the metal was quickly becoming, being readied for the task at hand.

Kamilla Arzt:  
The moment that Kamilla felt the man's tongue slide across their sensitive nipples, they couldn't help but squirm and mewl under his ministrations. Finally, they began to resist. Both of their hands pressing against the Warlord's head, in some feeble attempt to deny him his Gods given right to do what he pleases to this subhuman male, if it could even be called that. Their eyes twitch, as he suckles against it, their skin forming goosebumps as they mewl out their pleasure, like some sort of sow being butchered. Their lips hang agape, as they try to push his head away, but once he sinks his teeth in... It's over for their attempts. Their eyes slide to the side, as the pleasure washes over their body. The sensation of his sharp teeth digging into their chest, it was proving to be too much. Screaming out in pleasure, their body quaked, before their pathetic, negligible cocklette leaked cum from it like a faucet, their orgasm elongated by the brutal fucking that was occuring, as well as the milking.

Kamilla was being used like a sow. Completely, and totally. The more that the Warlord twitched his teeth, twisting his mouth's latch, forcing the faggot to give him more milk, the more brutally depraved their expression became. Like an unhinged whore, the incubus was screaming out wordless pleasure. Making sound, but their mind too fuck-dampened to make any coherent sense. It was like they were being sawed in half, and ripped apart by some hungry beast. But the pulsing pleasure was too much, they couldn't even think about resisting this. Hands that were once attempting to pull him away, were now pulling him closer. Kamilla desperately trying to get the Warlord to bite down harder, suckle more from their chest. Their labored breaths, indeed, proving that they loved this all the same as he, to the cost of their own safety, their expression going wild with lust.

"I-I, *ahn~!* Please, suck my tits dry~!" They beg of him. Indeed, as he pulled away from their chest, he could see the fruits of his actions. Their nipples were painfully engorged, dripping with that sweet, sweet nectar. Those nipples were standing erect, painfully red, and leaking milk like they were udders. "O-oh gods, milk me like a sow~! Your cock is breaking me~!" They bleat out like a stuck pig.

Their eyes rolling to the side, in pleasure, they couldn't help but see the hellsmith simply making his rounds. The brand he was preparing still made no sense to the whore, milk leaking from their tits, weak, pathetic cum splattered against the Warlord and their thighs. Their hole being brutally resized, to better pleasure their new master.

The glare they were getting from him. It sent a shudder down their spine, and a pulse to their cocklette. They loved the humiliation. The disgust on the faces of the Warlord's horde.

Anointed Warlord:  
The slut's beggings bore fruit, the Warlord's toothy maw quickly sliding from one faggy chest-nub to the next, sharp teeth cruelly twisting and grinding out the sweet stuff squirting from those hypersensitive nipples. The smith gave a nod in direction to the Warlord, eliciting a satisfied grunt from the man writ large. Letting go of the swollen, sore-red bitch-tits, the Ribspreader's mouth wandered up, trails of wasted fag-sap running down the sides of his mouth. Allowing no measure to pull away, the Warlord's maw caught Kamilla's mouth in a savage kiss, his broad, domineering tongue forcing itself into the incubus's mouth. Forcefully swapping a mixture of saliva and the slut's own bottom-bitch milk between them, he let her taste the undeniable proof of a sub-male's motherhood.

Pulling back, strands of lust-soaked spittle connecting their mouths, the Warlord allowed Kamilla to take note of the sudden source of heat hovering before her visage. The hellsmith was teasingly holding the red-hot iron before her face, just inches from those luscious features, letting her reckon just how flesh-sizzlingly heated that brutal branding-steel was. The smith's mouth remained coldly professional, but his eyes glowered down at her with glaring contempt, the slightest twitch of his lip indicating the sadistic pleasure with which he let the slut have a taste of the brutal heat emanating from the iron.

The thing itself was a surprisingly artful item - the glowing tip portraying an eight-pointed star surrounding big, proud letters that read 'Warlord Ribspreader's'. The name was set above a strange, eyeful rune originating from a dark and twisted tongue of a realm too inscrutable for mundane mortals to fathom. Unbeknownst to the incubus, it was that mystical runic lettering that bore the true power of this ritual. Just as well, to the smith it was a curiosity. This rune marked an incredibly imperious claim - the Warlord pledging himself to own the marked slut and cull any that would dare to take his property, whether they were human, or even superhuman. Excessive, and more trouble than it was worth, so the smith thought. Surely the slut wouldn't last much longer, broken and squealing as she already was, and keeping a broken womb around as anything but hound-chow seemed inadvisable. The hellsmith's trained eye took note of Kamilla's bloated bitch-belly, swaying and bouncing with the pair's brutal coupling, the news of the whore's fecundity and the speed at which her body supported the growth of the Lord's spawn seeming stark and real. Perhaps the Lord simply valued the worthless faggot's mystical womb with some credence. That would be it.

The marking-iron wandered lower, slowly and contemptuousely emanating the red heat that would soon be pressed directly into her. The smith artfully avoided getting the slut pounded into the branding, always pulling the superheated steel back just in time as the Warlord's savage rutting-pace continued unabated. Clearly, the master-smith had some accumulated experience with marking sluts that were in the throes of a thorough, hole-destroying breeding.

The Warlord's hand pulled the slut back by a forceful grip on her horn, maneuvering her swollen belly into the perfect position as his relentless hips kept up their steady, body-shaking pounding. The incubus could feel the Lord's tautly-stretched balls slapping and mashing against her taint and plush rear, could feel those gurgling cum-tanks beginning to contract, pulling up, readying themselves to seed her overfilled uterus with another womb-wrecking load. "Present your belly, my slut!" came his command, his poundings increasing, his hot breath washing over the back of the fag-breeder's neck "Beg! Beg to bear my mark! Beg to be mine for all to see!"

The hellsmith's glowering gaze exuded hateful pleasure, branding-steel poised and ready over her belly just above her cum-drowned womb, ready to thrust forth upon the slut's inevitable squeal.

Kamilla Arzt:  
The kiss, was what brought the incubus over the edge, once more. Their eyes flutter, as Ribspreader forces his tongue down their throat. Their engorged, puffy nipples unable to resist dribbling out more and more of their contents against the larger man. The kiss itself was laden with the depraved senselessness that the incubus so often inspired, their hands groping at the Warlord, begging him without words to shove his tongue in deeper, to lay more and more of a thorough claim upon their body. So many whores and faggots alike have ended up as feed for the war-mongrels, stoking the man's flames like this. Let alone, being ravaged in front of so many of his virile band. The skittish slaves, passing the group near the forge, giving their distant looks of contempt-- It distracted them, as they accepted Ribspreader's tongue.

As the Warlord pulled away, Kamilla's breath was desperate, with how it seemed to hitch in the back of their throat. It was euphoric, in the afterglow. But soon, the afterglow, that pleasant warmth that coated their face, started to become hot. It wouldn't take long until the sub-male glanced to the side towards the source of the heat. Their eyes widen, at the sheer sight of the glowing, red-hot iron. Their eyes blinking rapidly, as they begin to notice what's going on. Each and every moment that was spent fucking, was made harder for the Warlord. Their insides had tightened to such a wonderfully mind-numbing degree... He could feel the gaping hole of his flare begin to throb and pulse, bringing him oh so close to his eventual release.

The sensations were proving to be too much. Their eyes twitching from the sheer feeling of the man sawing a hole with how hard he was thrusting inside of them. Eyes shaking, they're unable to think. Breath catching, they can only watch, as the hellsmith holds the brand over their stomach. It was clearly over the womb itself. Something that was packed full with cum, and made gravid with the man's young. The Warlord's demands echoed throughout the bitch's skull. Causing them to all but lose their common sense, as their tongue hanged loose from their mouth, resting upon their lower lip.

"M-Make me yours~!" They manage to finally scream out, much to the chagrin of the passing slaves. They let out a mewling moan, as their eyes twitch, their cocklette spasming, about to let out a twitch of cum. "Mark my womb~! Make me your property~!" They finally surrender, presenting their stomach forward, in a feverish display of degeneracy.

... Though, perhaps only noticeable to Ribspreader, they leader their neck up against his, looking for comfort for the oncoming pain. The property he's putting an oath upon, looking for the succor of his patriarchal comfort.

Anointed Warlord:  
The incubus's squeals - whorish beggings that would have put any destitute harlot to shame - were answered by a determined thrust of that red-hot branding-steel that coincided with the Warlord's balls-deep thrust up her hungering hole, his cockflare insistently ramming against the very back of her broken bitch-womb as he let loose his pent-up studload. In an instant, the slut's worlds of pleasure and pain collided, the sound of her sizzling flesh mixing with the rutting-pair's bestial grunts and moans. Deep and insistently the master-smith pushed that branding-iron, professionally obligated to ensure that the mark was perfect and irrevocable, yet also sadistically satisfied with the immense pain he was inflicting on the domesticated ass-faggot's sensitive flesh. Not just in the smith's mind, but for every onlooker it was clear that this slut needed to be marked as the cum-draining, subjugated cattle-sub she was begging to be. The norscans looked with cruel satisfaction as they beheld the complete ruination of a failed male, forever doomed to be nothing but a cheek-spreading, tail-raising buttslut until her fagcunt was stretched and broken beyond recovery. It was the natural fate of such virility-starved failures to become prey to true males, claimed and marked as territory to be seeded until too fucked out to be of any more use.

Yet, congruently with the harsh looks and even harsher branding-action, the Warlord himself displayed a slightly different bearing. Locked in the throes of his gut-wrecking orgasm, the fright-and-pain-clenches of the incubus spurring on his relentless climax, the Ribspreader led a hand to the incubus's horn, pulling her back to look directly at him. Continuing to cram her overfilled guts with another uterus-clogging load, Kamilla's owner pressed his forehead against hers, his eyes steadfastly locked together. His comely face filled out her vision, his features hovering just an inch or two before hers, letting her feel his closeness. His hot breath overtook her nostrils, wordless grunts and growls escaping from his open maw as he slowly, emphatically, continued to breed her, fucking her through the agony of the branding. When the smith finally pulled back the iron, giving a satisfied grunt at his work, the Warlord gently grasped Kamilla's hand in his own, leading the two of them down to her marked belly before pressing them both against the rune denoting her belonging to him. Her hand clasped in his, he rubbed them together across that fertilized belly, stroking the stomach that was laden with his offspring and now irreparably marked as his personal domain.

"My private seedbed..." he whispered, only for Kamilla to hear, caressing her jizz-fattened bitch-belly. For just a short, slight moment, it seemed to be just the two of them, locked in the pleasure of letting the incubus bear yet another litter of the conquering male's lineage. The Warlord's pale gaze was hard, yet bore a remitting note that seemed mired in a mixture of thankfulness and tyranny. He owned her, now and forever, and no one else would ever be allowed to share what the two of them had in this few, precious seconds.

Then the moment was gone, and the Warlord's harshness returned, a rough hand grabbing hold of his gravid slut's shoulder before his sharp-fanged maw sunk into the side of her neck, giving her another, more primal mark that showcased just what an utterly ruined bitch she was as the northmen looked on with hard-bitten amusement.

Kamilla Arzt:  
Kamilla's eyes widen, as the Warlord's load slams in deep within them. The swimmers that staked claim within their womb were violent, and they could feel the burning of their distended stomach. Gasping out, their eyes go cross, as the hyper-aggressive, absurdly potent cum starts to almost hurt, with how they dig into the walls, their womb already claimed, so instead... Doing something particularly devious. Slamming into the sides of their walls, like their entire hole was some sort of uterus, the man's sperm started to wrench control of their senses. Each and every one of them forcing the incubus to feel every throb, every twitch of that cock. It was sublime, how sensitive they were, in this moment.

Little did they know, it would also be their hell. The hellsmith planted the hot iron against their gravid belly. Round with his young, and the seed that's actively raping their insides, the blacksmith was given a perfect canvas to brand. It was like putting a mark of ownership on a particularly plump sow. Searing against their flesh, the demon's eyes went alight in pain, as they gasped out. Eyes going blurry, they could feel their consciousness slipping, as their cocklette spurts out a watery load against Ribspreader's abdomen. It was too much. It eroded at their mind, and tore at their very thoughts. But even still, their legs spread, wide, for all of the gathered Norscan to see behind them. They deserved this.

The closeness, however, was something that brought with it a certain amount of comfort. Kamilla, struggling against the pain, was finally treated to their response. The large male began to loom over them, as the iron cooked at their seed-plumped stomach. Even as the blacksmith held the iron in place, the seed just wouldn't come out of the hole, Ribspreader's cock was just just too large, and his seed too thick. He had emptied his balls within them, he continued to abuse their prostate, ruin Kamilla, to try and ease the pain. Something that only the two of them could possibly have known about. To everyone else, it looked like he was just making sure his seed was planted deeply.

But Kamilla... Was taken by the sensation of it all. As he gripped at their horn, and pulled them, Ribspreader learned a valuable fact about the incubus. That horn was so sensitive that, even despite cumming so soon, as soon as the brand hit their stomach, he managed to make them cum their poor little brains out. The shot was obvious against his abdomen, and it had a bit more force to it, than usual. He could feel their hole going loose around his cock, as the brand was pulled from their skin, and his large hand enveloping the incubus's. Their eyes rolled up, they were all but gurgling out their pleasure, throat screamed hoarse from the entire endeavor...

But what they could manage, was a weak kiss, upon the man's jawline, as he brought himself close. Something that couldn't be returned in public. Something that had to be punished, in public.

... But the two's hands would remain upon the brand, as though some sort of silent agreement.


End file.
